# BLAME IT ON BROTHER BILL

by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Between Pike’s Peak and a Pickle,”
“Loco Color in Loco Land,” etc.

“Jay Bird” Whittaker sang love’s sweet song to a female lady one day. The lady seemed receptive enough to matrimony, and Jay Bird spent one whole afternoon on the church steps, packing about forty dollars’ worth of pansies in his arms.

But the bride cometh not, and thereby hangeth Jay Bird’s perpetual peeve against all things pertaining to calico. Jay Bird shies around women like a coyote around a steel-trap, and spends a lot of time feeling sorry for married folks.

Jay Bird owns the Cross-J cow-ranch and half the banks in the county, and is a trustee of the Paradise school. They elect him to said trusteeship because, not having any kids, he can act impartial, like a deaf, dumb and blind referee in a prize-ring.

Jay Bird never gets mad in spots. Nope. When he gets mad—m-a-d—he’s mad all over. His eye gets red, his mustache sticks out like the whiskers of a old bob-cat, and he hops up and down like the earth was too hot to stand on; but at no stage of madness does he lose control of his vocal cords. He can swear for five minutes and never say the same thing twice.

He hires four of us punchers to uphold the honor of the Cross-J and do a little work once in a while. He rises up on every pay-day, hands us our forty-dollar insult, and proclaims to the world that there ain’t a one of us worth a tinker’s ——.

“Ornamental!” he wails. “Costs me a hundred and sixty a month for knicknacks! Sell out pretty soon. Go into sheep. Danged ornamental cowboys. Catalogs full of better ornaments. Yah!”

Well, maybe he’s right—in some ways—at that. I’d be a ornament to any old cow-ranch. I look like a regular cowboy, and I can play a banjo good enough to make folks think I can read music.

“Muley” Bowles has poetical tendencies.

“Telescope” Tolliver, the longest one of us, who came from where they shoot ’em from the laurel thickets, says that poetin’ is worse than a floatin’ kidney—you can anchor the kidney.

“Chuck” Warner told the truth once. Back in 1888 he told a feller the truth. Of course Chuck was kidding, but when he found out that he had told the truth he rode seventy miles to correct his statement.

Chuck can wiggle his ears like a mule, and make you think the moon was made of green cheese. He ain’t got no accomplishments, but he can make you think he has—any kind you want to mention.

Muley and Jay Bird was arguing the difference between being killed with a .45-70 rifle, or a .45 six-gun when Chuck rides in and hands Jay Bird a couple of letters. Naturally we sets there around him, which fusses Jay Bird considerable.

“Now,” says he, “I wonder who in thunder wrote to me? I ain’t wrote to nobody. Gol dang it, I wonder who wrote to me?”

“They might give the snap away inside,” suggests Telescope. “Some folks ain’t got no more sense than to sign their name.”

“Myah!” snorts Jay Bird. “Smart as ——, ain’t you?”

He opens one of the letters and squints at the contents. He spells for a while and then begins to masticate like he was chawing round steak what hadn’t been pounded. Pretty soon he spits audible-like.

“Any of you buckaroos know what a see-na-reo is?”

“Sure,” says Chuck. “That’s a he in Spanish. Señorita is a female.”

“Yeah?” The old man pe-ruses the letter again.

“What else is in it?” asks Muley.

“She says—” the old man fusses with the paper—“she says, ‘I have been very successful with society see-na-reos, but the wild, free life of the boundless plain has called to me; its matchless beauty, its dashing cowboy heroes, its——’”

“Keno!” yelps Chuck. “I sabe what she is now. A see-na-reo is something that them moving-picture folks use. Who is this female who is pining for a dashing cowboy hero? Lead me to her, old-timer.”

“Like ——!”

The old man hops up and down and exudes profanity by the quart.

“Have her here? Gol dingle danged if I will. No dog-gone see-na-reo female is going to darken my door. By the horns on a Holstein heifer, my ranch ain’t no hangout for any female what hankers for cowboy heroes. Heroes? Heroes ——! This is a cow-ranch.”

The old man breathes hard and sets down with us again.

“Relation,” says he. “Can’t help that, can I? I ain’t to blame for being related to folks by marriage, am I? One thing about friends—you pick ’em yourself. Dang Bill!”

“Relation?” asks Telescope soft-like.

“Uh-huh. Related to my brother Bill’s wife. Dang Bill! Like a fool I saved his life the day before he got married. Wish it was today. Name’s Clementine.”

“Who, Bill?” asked Muley.

“No, no. Her wife. I mean her husband—— No!”

The old man hops to his feet and spits like a bob-cat.

“No, you blasted, long-complected wampus. Bill’s wife’s name is Clementine. Sabe? Her—name—is—Clementine!”

“Well,” says Chuck sad-like, “don’t try to fasten the crime on to us.”

“And she wants to come here,” murmurs Muley. “Out here——

“Where the cowlets gambol o’er the hills,
Where dashing cowboys stray,
And wear hair-pants and roll their pills,
And pray for next pay-day.
Where coyotes thrive and rattlers hiss,
Where —— is nothing to shun.
Male or female who hankers for this
Is a locoed son-of-a-gun.”

“Muley,” says Jay Bird, “that’s real poetry. It has rime and reason. I’m going to give you a raise some of these nice days.”

“When?” asks Muley.

“When Wick Smith pays back that dynamite he borrowed last Spring.”

“Going to answer that letter?” asks Chuck.

“Answer? You dang well know I am. I’m going to write her a screed that will change her whole future. When she gets through reading what I’m going to write her she’ll be sorry she ever wrote to me. Sabe?”

“Uh-huh,” nods Telescope. “She sure will. I’ve tried to read your writing, and I know.”

“Know anything about her?” asks Muley.

“Know she’s got more money than brains,” nods Jay Bird.

“How much more?” asks Chuck.

“Lot more—dang it! Worth a cold million, I reckon. There’s two of them.”

“Two millions?” asks Chuck scared-like.

“No, you danged chump. Two women. Her chum wants to come too. Letter says that her father is a financier. Wants to come for a holiday.”

“And you’re going to send ’em home,” says Telescope, sad-like.

“No!”

Jay Bird digs his feet into the dirt, and slaps his hips like a big bird getting ready to fly. “No! Gol dang it, I ain’t even going to let ’em start. Uncle Bill says that you will be pleased to have us spend a few weeks at your rancho. The —— he will! Yah! Rancho! Must think this is a Mexican settlement. I’m going to enjoy Bill’s funeral some of these days.”

“Maybe he’ll outlive you,” suggests Telescope. “Nobody knows.”

“Don’t, eh? Say they don’t? I can beat Bill on the draw, can’t I? Don’t talk about things you don’t know nothing about, Telescope. Dang Bill!”

Then the four ornaments went down to the corral and lined up on the top pole of the fence.

“This here old world is dreary enough without folks chasing away what little sunshine there is,” opines Telescope, “especially when the sunshine has a golden lining.”

“No woman worth a million would ever fall for a forty-a-month puncher,” says Muley sad-like. “She can pick and choose, can’t she?”

“Some can and some can’t,” states Chuck. “I knowed one once that——”

“Don’t lie, Chuckie,” reproves Muley. “You never knowed a woman that had over a dollar and six bits at one time. You dream things, hombre.”

“Love is a wonderful thing,” states Telescope. “Women make the world go round.”

“Uh-huh,” nods Muley. “And they make you wash your ears and make you quit playing poker.”

“You and Jay Bird had about the same experience, Muley,” grins Chuck.

“Yeah—only different. Mine was some woman, if you asks me. She was educated, believe me.”

“Yes, and she was smart along with her education,” nods Telescope. “She showed it when she passed you up, Muley.”

Muley was sitting straddle of the fence, leaning against a post, so he lifted one foot, placed same in Telescope’s stummick and shoved him off.

Just then Jay Bird comes loping down to the corral, waving a letter at us.

“Hey, Chuck! Sling a hull on your bronc and take this letter to town for me, will you? Want to get her off today.”

“Come on down with me, Hen,” says Chuck to me. “I don’t want to ride alone.”

“’Fraid he’ll lie to himself, Henry,” grins Muley, “and he believes his own lies.”

Me and Chuck gets half-way to town before he hauls out that letter. It is addressed to Miss Marie Castleton, Helena, Montana.

“Some name,” applauds Chuck. “Betcha she’s a bird, Henry Peck.”

“I’d tell a man, Chuck. And we’ll never see her.”

“The —— we won’t? Think she’ll ever get this letter? You’re crazy!”

“What do you aim to do?” I inquires.

“Telegraph, Henry. Get her here before Jay Bird can stop her. Sabe?”

When we got to Paradise Chuck sent this wire—

Come ahead and bring your pardner,

and signed it with the old man’s name.

Then we went down to Mike Pelly’s and played pool for a hour or so, and just as we’re getting on our broncs here comes the depot agent.

“Telegram for Whittaker,” says he, and hands it to us. After we gets out of sight we opens her up. She reads—

Arrive there tomorrow morning,

and is signed “Marie Castleton.”

We finds Telescope and Muley in the bunkhouse, and we shows them the telegram.

“Better give it to the old man,” advises Muley. “It’s for him.”

“And have him wire her to go back? Not much!”

“And may the best man win,” pronounces Telescope. “I hereby declares open season on any man I finds wearing any of my pink shirts or Sunday ties. Sabe? I’m tired of having you hombres get gaudy at my expense.”

“All right, cowboy,” says Muley. “Just lay off my razor and talcum powder.”

“And give me back them yaller boots of mine,” adds Chuck.

“They hurt your feet, don’t they?” asks Telescope.

“Not now they don’t. Hen, you take that polky-dot handkerchief away from him and he’ll be danged near nude.”

When it comes to clothes the Cross-J outfit are there. Any old time we opines to dog a little we can sure squeak around like dudes. We sees Jay Bird ride toward town, and about dark here comes Magpie Simpkins, leading the old man’s bronc.

“Dumped, drunk or a poker party?” asks Chuck.

“Went to Great Falls,” says Magpie. “Feller wants to buy some cows.”

“Dang him, he suspicioned things,” yelps Chuck. “Quitter!”

“For which?” asks Magpie, twisting his mustache.

“Scared of females,” explains Chuck. “Two ladies, both worth a million dollars, will arrive here in the morning. One of ’em is related to Jay Bird’s brother Bill, and now the old man sluffs his responsibility like this. He’s a fine relative!”

“Poor little darlin’s, almost broke,
Strangers in sage brush land.
No one to greet ’em—it’s no joke
To pine for a welcomin’ hand.
Relative’s gone to sell a cow;
Outlook is dark and drear.
No one to guide ’em—cool their brow
Or give them a proper steer,”

recites Muley weepy-like.

“Maybe he knowed what he was up against,” grins Magpie. “I’ve got relatives that I’d——”

“Never seen her in his life,” interrupts Chuck. “She’s a dinger, Magpie. Say, he’s got a picture of her on his wall. Come on, I’ll show you.”

We all went into the house, and Chuck pointed out the picture. Magpie got enthused right away, and I can see that Muley and Telescope ain’t missing none of that pretty face.

She sure looked mighty good. Maybe I ain’t no lady’s man, and maybe I don’t cut my cinch every time I see a pretty face, but I sure do sabe females what are easy to look at. I cut that picture out of a magazine myself. The epitaph said it was Lillian Russell, but I cut that off.

“And Jay Bird runs away from that?” grunts Magpie. “Million, too, eh? Jay Bird ought to be sent to a loco-lodge. Wish I was him.”

“Betcha the other one is a dinger, too,” says Muley.

“Beyond the shadder of a doubt,” nods Magpie. “Wish I was Jay Bird.”

“Go ahead, Magpie,” says Chuck serious-like. “The lady has got to have a uncle, ain’t she? It ain’t reasonable to suppose that any uncle would rather sell a cow than to meet the likes of her, is it? Of course, Magpie, a uncle ain’t going to fall in love with his niece. You’ve got to play according to Hoyle.”

“Oh, I ain’t got no matrimonial motives,” says Magpie. “I’m willing to be a willing little helper, that’s all. I’m betting that as uncle I’ll be closer related to her than any of you snake-hunters ever will be. Bet you even money. Who can cover a twenty at that price?”

“Whirl the wheel, Mr. Simpkins,” says Telescope. “I calls that bet.”

“Anybody else want to wager a bean or two?” asks Magpie. “Here is a easy-betting proposition, Henry. Want to get your feet wet?”

I didn’t. Love to me is like a Yaller Rock jury—no betting proposition. Jury sets in the case of Hassayampa Harris versus Doughgod Smith. Hassayampa is suing Doughgod for three hundred dollars, borrowed money. Doughgod admits it to be a couple of hundred, but Hassayampa says three. Jury brings in a verdict giving Doughgod two hundred dollars damages.

The judge gets woolly and asks the jury if they knowed what the case was about. He orates that Hassayampa is suing Doughgod—not Doughgod suing Hassayampa. Slim Hawkins, the foreman, says:

“We sabe the thing, judge, but we decided that any man who can borrow a cent from Hassayampa Harris is entitled to a consideration, the same of which we adjudicates to be worth an extra two hundred.”

Magpie hives up with us that night, and the next morning we all heads for Paradise. Magpie hitches the team to the buckboard to bring the ladies home in, and we got to Paradise about train-time. We finds Hassayampa Harris at the depot, and he gazes upon our raiment.

“Say, you fellers missed a day, ain’t you?” he asks. “You fellers sure are acting reckless, wearing Sunday clothes on Saturday. Why dude up thataway?”

“Hang around,” advises Chuck. “Something coming on the train.”

“Better get lanterns,” says he. “Freight wreck below Silver Bend, and the passenger won’t be in before dark.”

Then we all filed back to Mike’s place. Seems like most of the leading lights of Yaller Rock County are in Paradise. Being Saturday the most of the folks comes in to see the bright lights and do a little trading. We runs into “Cobalt” Williams and “Slim” Hawkins, and then we all joins forces with “Ricky” Henderson, “Frenchy” Burgoyne, Bill Thatcher and “Mighty” Jones. It was a mighty pleasant day.

As soon as Chuck imbibes what would make about two inches in a washtub he gets to orating. Of course Chuck’s oration spills the beans, and it ain’t no time until Paradise knows that Jay Bird’s wealthy niece and another gold-laden female is coming into our midst. Chuck tells ’em that the girls hankers to gaze upon some dashing cowboy heroes, such as is told about in song and story—by liars who ain’t never been further West than the stockyards of Chicago.

Then Bill Thatcher pounds upon the bar. Bill has gazed upon wine when it is red.

“Feller citizens,” says he, “I wish to be listened to upon the matter which confronts us like a sheep in wolves’ clothing. Paradise is about to be honored. Does Paradise appreciate it? No-o-o-o-o!”

Bill leans on the bar and cries bitter tears. Ricky Henderson gets weepy, and then Slim Hawkins boo-hoos like a kid.

“Ba-a-a-a-aw!” wails Bill. “Pup-paradise don’t appre-shiate things. Noshir. Here is two inoffensive ladies coming to shee her, and she ain’t doing a danged thing.”

“Tha’s right,” admits Ricky. “What’s th’ use of anything?”

“Nothing whatever,” says Cobalt sad-like. “Let’s get reshep-shun committee. What shay? Silver cornet band and shpeeches. Whoo-e-e-e!”

That suggestion hit the crowd dead center. Paradise has a band. There’s a drum, a slip-horn, a cornet and a flute. Cobalt plays the drum, Ricky plays the cornet and Slim plays the slip-horn. The flute ain’t found no master yet, so anybody plays it—if they can.

She’s some band—I think. They ain’t never practised together, being as they never are in town at the same time. When Cobalt comes to town he goes over to the vacant shack where they keep the music utensils, and he proceeds to hammer —— out of that drum for a hour or so. When Slim happens to town he goes over, puts some axle-grease on the slip-horn and blows himself limp.

Ricky has more time to practise, being as he lives in town. He’s only been shot at twice, which is a good record for a cornet-player.

But today the band is increased by two. Frenchy can play the squeeze-organ, and Bill Thatcher inherited a ear for music from his dad, along with a bull-fiddle.

We’re having a vocal vote on who will make the welcoming speech when in comes old Judge Steele from Piperock. We inoculates the old pelican against snake-bite, and then explains the gravity of the situation to him. He listens and applauds us for our public spirit.

“There ain’t a scintilla of evidence that I can’t do it well,” says he. “I can do it legally and lawfully, and there won’t be a dry eye in the audience. I sure have one silv’ry tongue, and I appreciates the honor you wishes upon me. But it is no more than I deserve.”

“As the horse-thief said on the gallows,” states Magpie.

“We’ll show um th’ Wesht as she is,” says Bill. “Wild and woolly and full of fleas, and never curried below the knee. Muley, you figure out a poem to reshite, and we’ll show um a good time.”

“I thank you for the honors you beshtows upon me,” says Muley. “I deserve every bit of it. We all do—danged if we don’t.”

“We’ll likely get all that’s coming to us,” grins Chuck.

After a while we went over and got them music utensils. Hassayampa pulls his gun and orates that he’s the best fluter ever whelped, and when a man thinks like that there’s only one thing to do—give him a flute. Frenchy got a squeeze-organ that leaked wind and whined like it had hay fever. Bill didn’t have his bull-fiddle, but Mike loaned him a violin, which only had two strings, and Bill said it was fine. He never used but one string anyway.

Maybe I didn’t have as much “Never-Mind-What-Happens” in my skin as the rest, and again maybe my idea of music was different, but I hated that band right off the reel. If they was playing for sawmills they wouldn’t even get splinters in their fingers.

I think Hassayampa was the most pleasing of any. He blew into the end of the flute instead of across the hole on the top, the same of which didn’t rack my nerves, and he got as much applause as the rest.

To see Slim playing that slip-horn reminded me of a man with gas on his stummick, sawing fence-rails with a dull saw. Every once in a while he forces it to emit a blat like a sick calf. Ricky runs the gamut of cornet afflictions, but he knows that nobody is going to kill him—not under the present conditions.

Cobalt gives that drum one awful walloping, and Bill squeaks loud and free on one string, while Frenchy cramps his whole system trying to urge enough wind into that squeeze-organ to make a note. We applauded ’em plentiful—when they desisted.

“Don’t you reckon we done well?” asks Slim.

“Well,” says Magpie, “you didn’t get killed—which is wonderful. What in —— was you fellers playing?”

“Classical composition, Magpie,” says Ricky. “The Tor-e-a-dore. That’s what they plays at Spanish Bull-fights.”

“——!” snorts Magpie. “I thought they killed the bull by hand.”

Then we all went back to Mike’s place to organize for the future. Old Judge Steele sure has some hy-iu ideas.

“Pe-rade,” says he. “Pe-rades is the thing, and a asset of civilization. After the pe-rade we will have a banquet. Sabe? We ain’t in no shape to hand out a regular banquet, but ‘Baldy’ Benson opines that he can fry ham and eggs enough at four bits per plate—pie extra. Now I’m asking you all to subscribe to the ham and eggs—pie extra—so we’ll be able to give Baldy a hunch on how much to fry.”

Everybody parts with a four-bit piece, and then the judge orates some more.

“Feller citizens, I wishes to argue pe-rades. Art Miller has a automobile. Art towed her in here last night behind his stage. She ain’t no beautiful dream, but she’s gas power, and Art says she’ll run. Art ain’t here tonight, but we all know he’d be willing.

“The guests which are about to invade our midst are likely used to the best, and we’ll give it to them to the best of our ability. Now I asks you this: Is there anybody within reach of my voice that feels competent to swing this here vehicle up to the depot and back to the banquet board at Baldy’s?”

“I’m competent,” says Magpie. “I know ’em from the gasoline tank to the cemetery. Lead me to the gas go-devil, and may I have an open path to glory. Amen.”

Art has got the machine in his barn. She ain’t much to gaze upon, but we all crowds in and looks her over. Magpie fusses around a while, and then he begins to wind her up. Frenchy and Bill gets curious to see what he’s doing, and all to once the blamed thing snorts, yanks ahead and pins all three of them jaspers to the wall.

About a dozen of us hauls her back and lets ’em loose. Bill and Frenchy want to lick Magpie, but he explains that there ain’t no brake on it and they lets him off.

We hauls her out of the barn, and everybody gets hold of the back end. Magpie winds her up, hops into the seat and yells for everybody to let loose. I hops in with him, and everybody let loose—all except Judge Steele, whose coat-tails caught in something, and we hauled him half-way to the depot, howling like a Comanche.

Magpie circled the depot, looking for a place to land, and lost me on the second crossing of the track. Then he shoved the end of it into the platform, and she stopped like a bronc with both feet in a hole. Then comes the band, with the judge limping along behind.

Magpie is some engineer. We hauled that machine away from the platform, and pointed her nose toward Baldy’s. Then Magpie got a inch rope and tied it from the rear axle to a post.

“Now,” says Magpie, “as soon as we gets the guests into the machine I want somebody to cut the rope. Sabe? We’ll let the engine run.”

Then we all lines up there in the dark and listens to the train. As soon as she drifts into town Cobalt takes a wallop at the drum, and they’re off in a bunch. We never heard the train at all.

It was darker than ever after the headlight got past us. The depot agent was a new man, and he didn’t take no chances with lights. The conductor hopped off the train with a lantern on his arm, and some danged fool among us cut off his twinkle with a bullet.

He went back into that car like a gopher going home, and we hears him yelling at us. We had one awful time making that band quit so we can hear what he’s got to say.

“Ladies coming off!” he yelps. “Don’t shoot!”

Two females drops off the platform, and the train departs. Somebody yelled at us from the back platform, and I seen Telescope bust the little corner lantern with a bullet.

Them two females stands there in the dark scared-like, and then old Judge Steele steps out of the main herd.

“Ladies and gents,” says he, “I have been lawfully chosen by the esteemed population of this glorious city of Paradise, a city lying like a gem in the midst of the bounding plains, where the sun rises like a jewel and sets like a—a—ahem! Where the sun rises in the evening and sets like a—a—a——

“Dearly beloved, I have been apportioned to hand you the keys of the ja—ah—city, and to assure you, my dear ladies, that you are not too good for anything we—ah—the people of Paradise, a city, lying like a—a—a——”

“No doubt about it, judge,” admits Magpie. “She lies in spite of anything. Anybody got anything more to say?”

“Me,” says Muley. “Here she goes:

“Dear ladies fair from other lands,
We welcomes you to Paradise.
If you comes heeled or empty hands,
That doesn’t cut a bit of ice.
We love you four ways from the jack.
We won’t dodge Cupid’s darts.
If you should happen to go back
You’ll leave a lot of busted hearts.”

Boom! Boom! goes that danged drum, and that bunch of melody-murderers starts in where they left off. Magpie grabs one lady and I grabs the other. We gets ’em into the back seat of the machine, Magpie grabs a lever that makes her howl, and then Hassayampa cut the rope.

Did we go? You danged well know we did. We bears right down on Mighty Jones, who was going to lead the pe-rade, and cut his bronc right out from under him. There’s one tire on the rear and one on the front, the same of which makes that wagon act like it had sore feet.

“Turn down to Baldy’s!” I yelled.

Magpie turned the best he could. He swings plumb over the side and yanks hard on the wheel, but that thing felt the reins too late. We hit the sidewalk where it was low, and we stayed right on it. I got a glimpse of Baldy standing in the door of his café, and the next second we took the three props out from under his porch, and then we hit straight for the North Star.

“Going back, ain’t you?” I yelps in Magpie’s ear.

“Steering-gear won’t work,” he yelps. “No rudder nor brakes, Henry.”

I looked back. The ladies seemed to ignore the seat and are sitting flat down in the bottom. I think one was praying.

Bang! goes a shot, and before I can turn, bang! goes another. I yanks my gun and spins lead back up the road.

“Tires blowed!” yelled Magpie. “Wind Ri-i-i-i-i-ver!”

Zow-w-w-w-w-w! That buggy hit the loose gravel of the grade, and we went into that river like a otter.

Woosh! Half the river seemed to hit me in the chest, and then we’re out the other side.

“Went some!” I yelps in Magpie’s ear.

“Ain’t stopped, have we?” he yells sarcastic-like.

It’s a mighty good thing that road was straight. Any time she bent a little we cut out the curves. Then we yanked over the last rise and whizzed straight for the Cross-J ranch-house.

Here is where Magpie used judgment. The road wasn’t cut out no further, so we hit the gate-post with a front wheel, the same of which bent things and took us from the straight and narrow way. Nobody knows how many times we circled that house.

Hop Louey, our cook, came out to see the merry-go-round on about the tenth lap, and just then we hits a grindstone, which bends us a little more, and we chased that chink right into his own kitchen door. It is sure hard to tell where he might have pilgrimed if that door had been big enough to let us through. We did well at that, and when I begins to understand things again I’m kneeling behind the stove, hanging on to the stove-pipe with both hands.

Magpie has a broom in his hands and is sweeping around, sort of dazed-like. A oil lamp on the table illuminates the scene fine. One of the ladies is standing against the wall with her hat down over her face, and the other, a fat sort of person, is setting on the front end of that wrecked machine, making funny motions with her hands.

Magpie sweeps around to the one against the wall, and when she won’t get out of his road he gets so sore that his mind clears.

“My ——!” he grunts and lays the broom down.

He watches her lift the hat off her face, and then he holds out both hands to her.

“Kiss your uncle,” says he hoarse-like.

The lady backs against the wall and looks wild-like at Magpie.

The fat one slides off the wreck and stares around the room. Then she staggers over to the one against the wall, and says—

“Fear not, Agnes—I am with you.”

“Same here,” says Magpie. “Body and soul, ma’am.”

“Where are we?” asks the thin one foolish-like.

“Right here,” says I. “Right here in the kitchen.”

The skinny one looks like a cross between a vinegar taste and a Pilgrim sister, and the trip she’s just taken wasn’t no fountain of youth, I’d tell everybody. She sort of shudders.

“Fear not,” says Fatty, looking mean-like at Magpie.

“I ain’t scared—I’m shocked,” states Magpie.

“Shocked? You ought to be in jail,” hisses Fatty.

“Yes’m, I reckon,” admits Magpie. “But you’d hate to see your uncle in jail, wouldn’t you?”

“Uncle? Well, well!”

“Uh-huh. Didn’t you recognize me?”

“No, I—I——”

“That’s sure all right, ma’am,” says Magpie. “You’re excusable.”

Them two ladies shakes their heads and looks at us. I reckon they’ve both aged some since they landed in Paradise.

“By golly!” says I. “We missed the ham and eggs, Magpie.”

“Did we?” asks Fatty wondering-like. “I thought we hit everything.”

Magpie fingers his mustache and feels of the bump over his eye. He ain’t no beautiful person to look upon when he’s intact, but with a bump over one eye and the top part of his shirt missing—well, he ain’t no heroic-looking hombre. He opens the door to the settin’-room and bows low.

“Ladies, there is your bood-wah. If I can do anything——”

“No,” says Fatty. “You’ve done a lot,” and they shut the door.

Me and Magpie sets down on the table and stares at each other.

“Henry,” says he, “is the name of that photygrapher on that picture of her?”

“I reckon. Why, Magpie?”

“I’m going to kill him some day, Henry. No man can lie like that and live long. Million per each, eh? Well, they say that every woman has some kind of charms. Did you get hurt any?”

“Me? I don’t know yet. I’ve got several precincts to hear from yet before I know whether I’m glad I came or a cripple for life. Let’s go down to the bunkhouse and get some liniment.”

“Sensible thought, Henry. What do you reckon Art Miller will say when he sees the wreck?”

“You fellers won’t live to care,” snaps Muley’s voice, and here comes him and Telescope and Chuck climbing over the top of the car.

Muley has got a gun in his hand and murder in his eye.

“You danged kidnapers,” wails Telescope. “You done us dirt.”

“All of Paradise is sore at you two,” states Chuck. “Nice way to treat ’em after they puts themselves out thataway, ain’t it? You sure got in bad. Sabe?”

“We’d ’a’ likely got in worse if the door had been wider,” says Magpie.

“Where’s the ladies?” demands Muley belligerent-like. “Don’t lie, Hen!”

I points at the closed door. Muley looks at the busted machine. On the floor is the hat which belongs to the skinny one.

“My ——!” he wails. “If you’ve hurt a hair of their heads——”

He yanks the door open and sticks his head inside.

Bam! Muley lands setting down in the kitchen and around him falls the remnants of the old man’s blue water-pitcher. Muley looks up at us, and between his eyes seems to rise a purple goose-egg.

“How did you find ’em?” asks Magpie.

“Well—” Muley hitches further away from the door and rubs his head—“well, I find that you and your danged automobile didn’t break all their arms.”

“Say, can you hear me?” yelps a woman’s voice from inside.

“Each and every word, ma’am,” says Telescope. “Go ahead.”

“I just wanted to say that I’ve found a gun in here. A word to the wise is sufficient, I hope.”

“Ma’am,” says Chuck, “you get your hope. Is there anything we can do?”

“You might try,” says she, “but you won’t get far with it.”

We all looks at each other and nods. Muley caresses his eyes.

“I know how she got her million,” says he. “She bluffed somebody out of it. The old man ain’t got a gun in the house.”

“Oh, yes he has,” says Telescope. “He’s got that old double-barreled muzzle-loader shotgun in there, Muley.”

“Yes, he has,” agrees Chuck, “but it ain’t been shot for years.”

“That makes no never mind,” orates Telescope. “The old man loaded it with rock salt to shoot a Mexican with, but the Mex got wise and never showed up again. Ever get salt under your hide?”

Then four dashing cowboys and a bunco uncle hitched up their belts and sneaked out of there on their toes, and we never hit a heel until we shut the bunkhouse door behind us.

“How did Paradise feel about it?” I asks.

“Mighty Jones sprained his wrist,” states Chuck, “and Baldy Benson is peeved over his porch. When we left there the band was serenading the jail, and Judge Steele was still there at the depot, trying to remember how the sun sets in Paradise.”

“I—I wonder if they recognized me as the person who recited the poem at the depot?” wonders Muley.

“I don’t think so,” says Magpie. “’Cause why? Well, they’d ’a’ used the gun on you instead of the pitcher, Muley.”

“Does she look like the picture, Magpie?” asks Telescope.

“Well—” Magpie twists his mustache and considers the question—“well, I don’t like to make a statement about that, but I’ll say this much, Telescope: She looks as much like the picture as the picture does like her.”

“Near enough,” admits Chuck, and Magpie nods, “to the truth—yes.”

“Wish I could get out of the cow business,” says Telescope. “Feller never amounts to nothing in this business, and believe me, I’ll get out the first chance I get.”

“Opportunity knocks at your door,” says I.

“How?”

“Walk up to the house and open the door. That rock salt is petrified by this time.”

Then we went to bed. We ain’t got to sleep yet when we hears a wagon roll into the yard. We hears voices, and then the wagon goes away.

“Some of that danged Paradise bunch follered us up here,” grunts Telescope.

We speculates for a while, and all to once comes a whopper of a explosion.

“Mamma mine!” whoops Chuck. “That muzzle-loader! Served ’em danged well right for monkeying around. Good for the girls!”

Chuck crawled out and barred the door.

“Make ’em believe we’re all asleep or dead. We ain’t got no room in here anyway.”

Pretty soon there comes a knock, and then somebody tries to get in. We don’t make a sound, and after they rattles the door a few times they goes away, cussing profoundly.

The next morning we puts on our Sunday clothes. Muley can’t resist taking a peek at the house, and when he opens the door in comes Sing Louey. That chink has a poker face, but right now he shows e-motion.

“Breakfast ready?” asks Muley.

Sing shakes his head and points to a bump over his eyebrow.

“No sabe! Too much no can do. Whasa-malla?”

“What happened?” asked Telescope.

“Las ni’—” Sing rubs his head sad-like—“somebody try killum me. No sabe. Smashum door. You sabe? ’Mobile buggy. I sleep in barn las’ ni’.

“Bymebye I go to kitchen. Makeum bleakfast—you sabe? Lattle pan, sing China song. Bossie likum egg cook two minute. Me no clock. Me go in to get clock in bedloom. No sabe!”

“Did you get the clock, Sing?” asks Magpie.

Sing nods and rubs the lump.

“Too much quick. No catchum. Where lady come flom?”

“Jay Bird sent for her,” says Magpie. “You sabe niece?”

“She stay?”

“Maybe.”

“Where boss?”

“Gone to Great Falls.”

“Smart man,” nods Sing. “Me go ’way, too.”

“Great Falls?” asks Chuck.

“Go plenty fa’. Maybe Flisco. Goo’-by.”

And we stands there and sees our hopes for breakfast going off down the road toward Paradise.

“Well, what do you think about that?” wonders Muley.

“I think,” says Magpie wise-like, “I think we abducted a catapult.”

“Look who’s here,” grunts Muley, and we sees Ricky Henderson ride up.

Ricky sure can dog up like a plush horse, and we can smell the perfume before he stops his bronc. He ain’t in the habit of visiting us.

“Just riding around,” says he. “How’s things?”

“We don’t know yet,” says Magpie. “We’re scared to ask ’em.”

“Mornin’, cowboys,” yells a voice outside, and Bill Thatcher slides off his bronc. Bill is sure dressed up like a blue-ribbon pup. He’s got on one of them dickey shirtfronts and no vest, the same of which makes him keep his coat buttoned and both hands busy to keep it inside.

“Been getting drunk or married, Bill?” asks Telescope.

“Bill’s got weak lungs,” grins Chuck. “He’s protecting ’em.”

“Aw-w-w-w-w!” grunts Bill. “You snake-hunters don’t sabe style. This is the latest thing out. Sabe?”

And he puts her back inside again.

“How did you come out with the automobile, Magpie?”

“Didn’t. Reckon it will require a carpenter, Bill. Howdy, Cobalt.”

“Greetings,” says Cobalt, and adds his presence to our group. “Just run over to see Whittaker, and—looks like a roundup here. All you bright and early punchers.”

“You knowed Jay Bird wasn’t home, didn’t you?” asks Muley.

“I don’t believe all I hear, Muley.”

“A-a-a-a-ny bod-e-e-e-e-e home?” yells a voice, and here comes Slim.

He’s wearing a sombrero that makes him look like one of them coconut palms you see in pictures. He’s got on a green silk shirt with a red handkerchief around his neck and is wearing a pair of yaller boots. He’s got us all faded when it comes to being gaudy.

“Going to town and thought I’d stop in,” he explains foolish-like.

“Might as well,” admits Muley. “Only seven miles out of your road.”

“Why does everybody lie?” complains Telescope. “Looking at you I’d opine it was a fiesta day at the Cross-J. Ain’t there enough females to go around without you cutting in on our latest shipment?”

Nobody says a word, and then Magpie adds:

“Gold-hunters, Telescope. If them girls didn’t have money you couldn’t lead one of them hombres to this ranch.”

“You’re wrong,” states Bill. “Money be danged is my motter.”

“Same here,” says Ricky. “I can support any wife of mine—y’betcha.”

“Who’s got money?” asks Cobalt. “What you talking about, Magpie?”

“Has them girls got any money?” asks Slim. “I never heard about it.”

“Well,” says Chuck, “it was a lie anyway.”

“Say it was?” asks Slim. “What would Jay Bird lie for? He ought to know something about his own relations, hadn’t he?”

“Thought you never heard anything about it, Slim,” states Magpie.

“Aw-w-w-w, I just heard—that’s all; but I’m like this: I don’t believe much what I hear.”

“You cow-trailers make me tired,” grunted Chuck, getting up and starting for the door.

“Where you going?” asked Telescope.

“Paradise. There ain’t no sense in everybody trying to visit with two girls at the same time at the same place, is there? If a feller had a horse and buggy he’d——

“But there’s only two decent driving-horses in Sam Holt’s stable.”

“Ho hum-m-m-m-m!”

Bill stands up and stretches his arms. “Reckon I’ll drift on, folks.”

“Same here,” announces Ricky, and Cobalt gets up, too. “Got to see a feller about noon today.”

“I’ll mosey along too, I reckon,” proclaims Slim, and we watches them four dude punchers swing on to their broncs.

Did they ride away friendly-like? They did not. Slim spurred his bronc over a five-foot wire fence and had two hundred yards start. Ricky and Bill jammed into each other at the gate, which gave Cobalt second place from the barrier, and we stood there and watched ’em fight it out through the dust—four souls with but a single thought.

“Ain’t you going to compete, Chuck?” asks Magpie.

“Nope. Sam Holt sold the last buggy-horse he owned to Bill McFee, and right now the livery-stable is null and void.”

“By cripes, I’m hungry,” wails Muley. “Don’t we never eat again?”

“Did you ever get shot with rock salt?” asks Telescope.

“Yah!” snorts a voice behind us, and we turns to look into the face of Jay Bird Whittaker.

He’s got loose hay hanging all over him, and he’s feeling deep into his hip pockets with both hands.

“Yah!” he snorts again, masticating rapid-like.

“Yah?” says Telescope agreeable-like. “You here?”

“No,” he snaps. “Won’t be back for a week! Who’s in my house?”

“The see-na-reo-ess,” says Chuck, wiggling his ears.

“Bill’s niece?”

Jay Bird goes off the ground with both feet.

“Gol dingle dang it! Takes after Bill. Yesterday she does—dang his hide! Shoot first and ask questions afterwards. Shot me in the middle of the night. Danged if she didn’t! When did she come?”

“Last night,” says Magpie. “Thought you was in Great Falls.”

“Yah! Seventeen box cars tore up the tracks, so the trains can’t run but one way. You fellers met ’em yet?”

“Muley got a knockdown to one of them, and Magpie and Hen brought ’em home in a automobile,” says Telescope.

“Automobile, eh? Treated ’em right, eh? Yah! And then they shoots their relative in the middle of the night! All alike—dang ’em! Come on. When I get through talking to ’em they’ll wish—— Salted me! Right in the pants!

“Hate women. Won’t have ’em here. Sabe? Won’t even have a woman cook. Keep my chink, believe me! Chink don’t fall in love with nothing but his hop-pipe. Women, ——! Come on.”

“They crowned Sing with a clock, and he left,” states Muley sad-like.

Jay Bird lets this soak in a minute, and then heads for the house with us trailing close. The front door is open. One of them females is standing by the little table fixing the lamp, and the other stands up as we come in.

“Came anyway, eh?” snorts Jay Bird. “Just like a woman. No sense. Going to kill Bill some of these days. Didn’t wait for my letter, eh? Well, why don’t you say or do something?”

“Think I ought to kiss you?” asks the fat one sarcastic-like.

“Kiss me! Gol dingle dang it, you’ve got nerve! Just like Bill.”

“I don’t know what to say,” says the thin one timid-like. “We met a lot of lunatics at the depot who put us in an automobile and tried to kill us. One of them said he—he was our uncle, and then that fat one there tried to come into our room when we was going to bed.”

“And then somebody else tried to break in here afterwards,” says Fatty.

“I know,” says Jay Bird.

“I—I found this gun and shot through the window, but don’t think I hit him.”

“Don’t bet!” snaps Jay Bird. “Don’t bet! Gol dang it, I don’t want you here. Won’t have you here either, believe me. Won’t have no gol-danged see-na-reo-esses around my ranch. Sabe?”

“No what?” asks Fatty.

“See-na-reo-ess!” howls the old man.

Blam! I’ll hand it to Fatty when it comes to heaving things. She had her hand on that oil lamp, and when the old man repeats that name, she hauls off and plants the lamp right on his brow.

The old man goes backward over a chair and comes up with the wick in his teeth.

“Don’t you offer me no insults,” squeaks Fatty. “You think just because we’re helpless women——”

The old man spits the wick out and wipes the oil out of his eyes.

“You’re no uncle of mine!” she yelps. “Nor you either!” she yelps at Magpie.

“Ma’am,” says Magpie, “I bows to superior wisdom.”

“You have anything more to say?” she asks.

“More ——!” snorts Jay Bird. “Sorry I spoke. Dang Bill!”

“Dang Bill all you want to, but you can’t insult me.”

“You know your limitations, ma’am,” says Jay Bird soft-like; and just then cometh “Old Testament” Tilton. He smiles at us collectively.

“Brothers and sisters, I give you the good word,” says he.

“I’ll take it,” says Jay Bird, and the old devil-dumper rubs his hands together happy-like.

“I ain’t heard a word,” says he, “but any time I sees so many punchers dressed up and all heading the same way I gets a hunch. Who is the lucky man?”

“I am,” says Jay Bird. “I am—dang it! That gun might ’a’ been loaded with buckshot.”

Then the pe-rade begins to arrive. Slim comes in a buckboard, driving a pair of Seven-A broncs, and right behind him comes Cobalt with his saddle-horse hitched to a breaking-cart. Ricky and Bill seem to have gone into pardnership with a two-seated hack.

They sort of lazys into the place offhanded-like, and stands around.

“Howdy, Jay Bird,” says Cobalt. “How’s everything?”

“Don’t know!” he snaps. “Ain’t a puncher—don’t know everything.”

“Any of you gentlemen claim relationship with us?” asks Fatty.

“Ma’am,” says Bill, bowing low, “you know your own heart. I’m free, white and twenty-one.”

“Me too,” says Cobalt. “I ain’t got much, but I’m a honest, hard worker.”

“Tell the truth, Cobalt,” advises Bill. “It’s true that you ain’t got much, but why add the honesty and hard work?”

“Say!” explodes Jay Bird. “What you fellers trying to do? Make love to my niece before you know her? Love! All right. All right. Just as soon marry Bill’s niece to a good-for-nothing puncher as not. Be a good joke on Bill —— dang his hide! I’ll introduce you. Line up, dang you, and get used to a couple of millions.”

The ladies stand there like a pair of foolhens.

“Now, girls—” Jay Bird looks the crowd over—“there ain’t a lot of choice among ’em. Take a look and let your judgment be your guide.

“Slim Hawkins is the first one. Slim, meet the ladies. Cobalt, you’re the next victim. Girls, this is Cobalt Williams.”

“T’ meetcha,” says Cobalt foolish-like.

“Yah!” snorts Jay Bird. “Next is Bill Thatcher, girls. Bill ain’t much to look at—except his loose shirt-front. Bill—the ladies.”

“Paralyzed,” bows Bill. “Perfectly.”

“Now Ricky——”

“Just a short pause,” says Ricky. “You ain’t pronounced the names of the ladies yet, Jay Bird. I admire to know who I’m meeting.”

“——! They’re taking chances—not you!” snorts Telescope.

Jay Bird rustles through his pockets and hauls out a letter.

“Danged if I don’t disremember the names myself,” he grins. “Bill’s relatives’ names don’t mean much to me.”

He peers into the letter.

“Which one of you is my niece?” They both stare at him.

“Is he a relative of yours, Agnes?” asks Fatty, and the skinny one shakes her head.

“Not on my mother’s or father’s side.”

“Bill sent you, didn’t he?” asks Jay Bird.

“Never heard of him,” says Fatty. “Live in Helena?”

“No! Dang it, no! In Spokane.”

“As far as that’s concerned, nobody sent us,” states Agnes. “We got your telegram, and you said——”

“Here it is,” says Fatty, handing it to Jay Bird.

“Marie Castleton?” says he wondering-like. “Why, I—I wrote you——”

He turns just in time to see me and Chuck going out. I seen him reach for that danged shotgun, and I sure hopped high and handsome. There ain’t a danged saddle-horse in sight, so we picks Cobalt’s bronc and breaking-cart. It looks faster than the rest.

Chuck cut the tie-rope, and that bronc whirled away from there like a flash. The animal might ’a’ been bridle-wise, but not wise to a driving-bridle, ’cause no horse what ever pulled a vehicle to any extent will go so far as to try and jump fences with one.

We cuts a circle away from there, and that fool bronc jumped the fence around the hay yard. The long shafts in the cart acts like a teeter-totter over the top pole, and when that bronc comes down on the other side me and Chuck sure got a bird’s-eye view of Jay Bird Whittaker’s possessions.

I seem to be about to the top of my flight when something seems to sting my system considerable and just as I hit the top of the haystack I hears the roar of that blasted muzzle-loader. Somebody had let me have the other barrel. I lit sitting down, and I sure skidded off that hay and pointed toward Paradise.

It took me about fifteen seconds to catch up with Chuck, and right behind us comes that team and hack that Ricky and Bill brought up. They’re running away, but they ain’t got nothing on me and Chuck.

We yelps and waves our hats and managed to turn ’em into a patch of mesquite, which slowed ’em up enough to let us hook on to the rear end. We crawls over the bumping end-gate and lays down to breathe.

“Danged old wing-shot!” yelps Chuck. “You got off lucky, Henry.”

“The —— you say! Notice I’m not sitting down, don’t you?”

The seats have bumped off the vehicle, and the going is so rough that we can’t stand up, so we lays there and waits for what is yet to come.

“Must be about to Wind River,” yells Chuck. “We’ve been going for a long time.”

And just then we hit something that stands us on our heads against the front end of the hack. I grabs hold of Chuck, and when I hits the ground he’s on my lap, and right in front of us is Jay Bird Whittaker.

Our hack had hit the corner of the bunkhouse. I gets a glimpse of two bucking broncs about half out of harness buckjumping up the slope beyond the house, and as I peer around a tire comes down and rings a fence-post. That team had cut a circle with us and we didn’t know it.

Jay Bird squints down at us, and sort of grins. Chuck fusses in his inside vest pocket and hauls out a crumpled letter.

He hands it to Jay Bird, who stares at it and then opens it up. He squints at the contents and hands it down to us. It reads:

> Dear Madam:

> Got your letter today regarding you and your teacher friend. We are going to hire a man teacher for this term. We ain’t got a big enough school for two teachers, and no woman could learn these darned tough kids anything.

> Yours resp’y,
> J. B. Whittaker,
> Trustee of the Paradise School.

Chuck peers up at the house and scratches his chin.

“You—you also wrote to your relative, didn’t you, Jay Bird?”

“I did not!” snorts Jay Bird. “Letters are too slow. I sent a telegram—gol dang you! I didn’t trust nobody with that but old man Whittaker. Sabe?”

Chuck nods and squints at the house again.

“All gone,” nods Jay Bird. “Follered the runaway. Girls went with Old Testament.”

“School-teacher, eh?” wonders Chuck, wiggling his ears. “Can’t use ’em, eh? Too bad. You don’t know a real teacher, old-timer.”

“Don’t, eh? Say I don’t? Going to hire Marie—danged if I ain’t! She sure can hammer wisdom into kids, believe me.”

“Or into adults,” says I. “She sure can.”

“Yeap,” says Chuck. “She’s there four ways from the jack. She sure is competent to teach the young idea how to shoot.”

“Shoot?”

Jay Bird flinches away from his pants and squints down at us.

“Chuck, you told the first truth I ever heard from you. Danged if she can’t—even in a night school.”

Transcriber’s Note
This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, November 21, 1921. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.